


it’s not the waking, it’s the rising

by lesbianbettycooper



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s08e04 The Last of the Starks, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Slavery, Missing Scene, im a wreck! wtf!, not really a fix-it :peace::pensive:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 09:10:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18735991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianbettycooper/pseuds/lesbianbettycooper
Summary: She resolves not to shake at least. The first time she’d been put in shackles, she’d shaken and cried. This time she refuses.She stands still, wraps her hands together, blinks back any tears that come forward. She won’t give them this. Even as the pirate comes close, sneers taunts and threats into her face. Even as the Usurper smirks at her from behind her wine glass, malice and amusement clear as day. Missandei stands straight, sets her jaw, grips her hands together like a vice.or; missandei refuses to cower





	it’s not the waking, it’s the rising

**Author's Note:**

> once again, i got the title from the hozier fic name generator chjdskks this time it’s from ‘nina cried power’
> 
> thank u so much to nam, my beta!! a legend amongst legends!!!

***

 

The shackles dig into her wrists. They grind against her bones and chafe her skin.

 

Missandei remembers the feeling well. She’d pushed the thoughts of it from her head; tucked the feeling of chains on her wrists into the dark recesses of her mind. She can’t exactly push it away now.

 

She resolves not to shake at least. The first time she’d been put in shackles, she’d shaken and cried. This time she refuses.

 

She stands still, wraps her hands together, blinks back any tears that come forward. She won’t give them this. Even as the pirate comes close, sneers taunts and threats into her face. Even as the Usurper smirks at her from behind her wine glass, malice and amusement clear as day. Missandei stands straight, sets her jaw, grips her hands together like a vice.

 

Every second she spends in this place brings her closer, and yet farther still, from tears.

 

She wants to be with Grey Worm, wants to kiss him softly and tell him it’ll be okay. Wants to make their escape to Naath right away.

 

She wants to be with Daenerys, wants her queen’s soft hands to run through her hair. Wants to see her kind smile and feel her warm touch.

 

She’d settle even, Missandei thinks, for Lord Tyrion to tell her a joke and share with her his wine. Or, perhaps, for Lord Varys to tell her something she hadn’t known, a little nugget of information that leaves her guessing and excited.

 

Something in her even wishes for the North, not for the people or the leaders but simply, to be away from here. Away from the warm sun beating down on her skin that makes her think of home, that tries to lull her into a false sense of security. Away from the Usurper and her sea dog and the hand who’s eyes roam over her like she’s already dead. Missandei supposes she is.

 

The very second that she’d awoken, with the pirate staring down at her, standing too close and smiling too wide, she’d known that her death was imminent. She knows that King’s Landing’s warmth means nothing, that it will just rot her body faster.

 

Her knees feel wobbly, her stomach turns.

 

Oh, how she wishes for Naath. For the scalding sun, even hotter than here. For the white beaches and the children’s laughter. For the grilled meat, sizzling away on the fire and the cold, fruity drinks, cooling you from the Sun’s rage.

 

Missandei hears the Usurper enter again, watches her take measured steps. She sits near her; not too close that Missandei can do anything before that behemoth of a thing slices her in two but not so far that Missandei can’t see the look in her eye. A mixture of glee and hate and something calculating too.

 

Cersei shifts in her chair, waves for more wine - Missandei wonders if the love of wine is hereditary, if the Usurper knows that she has that in common with the brother whom she loathes. “You’re a strong little thing, aren’t you?” She asks - no, _mocks_ \- all whilst sipping slowly on her drink.

 

Missandei doesn’t reply. Only blinks at her and clenches her jaw even tighter. She sees Cersei smirk slightly behind her cup.

 

“You speak the common tongue, no?” Cersei questions, the glint in her eyes a little more dangerous, a little more amused.

 

Missandei nods, pushes down her fear. “Yes.” She doesn’t deign to say anything more.

 

The Usurper takes another gulp of her wine; her mouth hidden behind her cup. “Your name then?”

 

Missandei knows the wretched woman knows her name. And she wants to scream, to cry, to run. She’s stuck in shackles again, left to the bidding of a mad woman. “Missandei of the island, Naath.” she mutters instead, wringing her hands.

 

“Tell me of your queen, Missandei.” Cersei demands, her voice dangerously calm.

 

Missandei almost does, she almost looks down at the ground and caves in on herself.

 

And, oh, how easy it would be to slip back into that role. To look at her feet and answer each question easily and respectfully. To be grateful the chains aren’t around her neck and feet as well, that she’s not being whipped in the street or hung for everyone to see her shame. The survivalist in herself screams at her to punctuate each sentence with ‘master’ and to please however she can.

 

Missandei _feels_ herself trying to slip back into it. The subservience, the submissiveness. Trying to appease this woman, so maybe, just maybe, she can live just a little while longer.

 

But she won’t.

 

Daenerys Stormborn freed her. She hasn’t been a slave in _years_. She won’t waste her last days - weeks, months, however long it takes to kill her - a slave.

 

The shackles around her wrists are not the same ones from years ago. The shackles on her wrists do not mean that Missandei will ever be a slave again. The shackles on her wrists do not stop her from being _free._

 

And they don’t change the fact that she lived freely. That she loved freely. That she will _die_ freely.

 

Missandei clamps her mouth shut. Stiffens her spine and looks the Usurper in the eye. She doesn’t answer her, doesn’t even dignify her with an objection, let alone say what the woman wants to hear.

 

She feels a Targaryen strength rush through her, a strength that turns her spine to steel and curls tight around her heart. And she feels a fear deep inside her too, a fear that she looks in the face as Grey Worm would have, a fear that won’t break her. Missandei doesn’t recoil, doesn’t betray her queen, doesn’t let the cold glare the Usurper levels her with chip at her resolve.

 

 _I am a dragon,_ Daenerys would say. _I am a dragon and dragons do not cower from lions._

 

Missandei is of Naath. Her people are peaceful and kind, and they can bend without breaking.

 

Missandei is of the House Targaryen. They are strong and fierce, and they can crack to pieces, yes, but they can also put themselves back together again.

 

Missandei’s built a life for herself. A life she’s been _proud_ of, one that’s been full of love and full of choices and so very _free_. She is a _lover_ and a _friend_ and an _advisor_. It just would not do to let the Usurper see her as anything else.

 

***

  


**Author's Note:**

> i’m SAD
> 
> fuck d&d for doing that to her! fuck them for making her die in chains! fuck them for using her as a prop to d/nys white saviour/mad queen storyline!
> 
> like.......... i will truly NEVER be over this. rest in power missy!


End file.
